Last weekend

Saturday dawned wonderfully crisp and clear after the brutal hailstorms of the day before. I walked the dogs through our cauliflower fields and surprised several buzzards out hunting. Our first variety isn't ready to harvest, so we'll be cutting like demons on either side of Christmas. We made a loop out around the cliffs towards Land's End, then back through our older steers to check none had gone awol or fallen sick.

Aidan and I then left the car in Penzance and caught the train to Truro. We're among the first gay couples in the area getting married ("registration" is what you do to cars or enemy aliens), and although we're not concocting vows or a ceremony, we want to exchange rings. The young jeweller we dealt with wasn't nearly as embarrassed as I'd anticipated - he was either on our team or he'd been on a course. His firm is launching a range of rings specifically for the gay marriage market (in rose gold, which sounds unspeakably tacky). After much discussion about the ability of various metals to cope with combine harvester maintenance and weeding, we opted for platinum and something that didn't look too like a cross-section of hot-water pipe. Neither of us is a ring-wearer, so it will feel new and strange; entirely appropriate.

Next, we bought Aidan a suit, because his best woman teases him for always borrowing mine, then I had to buy one, too, because it was buy-one-get-one-20%-off and I was jealous. Then we bought neoprene surfing gloves: we both have lousy circulation and it's not safe wielding a razor-sharp broccoli knife when you're so cold you can barely grasp it.

Eating pasties for lunch on the train home meant that the supermarket trawl back in Penzance didn't result in the usual stash of instant-gratification hevva cakes and saffron buns. Resolve never to shop when hungry again. We got the usual pitying looks for loading our purchases into cardboard boxes, but I hate plastic bags with a passion. They're forever blowing into our fields and getting tangled in the hedges.

Resisted practising my cello, out of consideration for Aidan and the cat, though I need to because I have two Messiahs to play in the next fortnight. Instead, crispy chicken salad and an evening by a rather smoky fire. A 40-minute phone call from my brother, which was great because, being brothers, we never speak.

Sunday morning was devoted to reducing the ironing heap. Sennen Feast, the local saint's day, traditionally means lunch with my in-laws-to-be. Delicious local pork and equally tasty talk, about dentists, feral cats and Sennen's dogged (hooray!) resistance to the offering of The Peace during Eucharist. More filthy weather blowing in off the Atlantic as I gave the dogs their evening walk. Antiques Roadshow, Bleak House, then another quiet evening by the fire with crosswords and the first of six tapestries for the dining chairs. The stealthy transformation into our parents seems worryingly near.